


Dealing With The Fallout

by whereismygarden



Series: Embrace [2]
Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M, Prostitution
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-06-08
Updated: 2014-12-28
Packaged: 2017-12-14 08:15:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 15,601
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/834680
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whereismygarden/pseuds/whereismygarden
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>All of the follow-ups, drabbles, and remixes of "Embrace" live here.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Morning After

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Embrace](https://archiveofourown.org/works/821275) by [whereismygarden](https://archiveofourown.org/users/whereismygarden/pseuds/whereismygarden). 



> I rated this "E" because I don't really know where this verse is headed. Chapters will range from G to E, most likely.

This came from a prompt on tumblr: "Gold is crying, Belle comforts him."

* * *

 

Belle woke slowly, and was confused for a moment: she was lying on something soft, warmth wrapped all around her. Her nest in the woods was cold and brown, and her cell was cold and dank—no—it was white and chilly, but she had never slept elsewhere. She blinked and looked around the dim room, recognizing it at last. She was in the pawnbroker’s house—Mr. Gold. The soft sheets were a deep red color, the walls a soft rose. All sorts of knickknacks lined the walls, vases and statuettes and pictures that she had missed last night, in her exhaustion and fear.

                She was naked, her dirty, wet clothes left on the bathroom floor and the towel she’d wrapped herself in lying on the floor, but the sheets and comforter on the bed left her warm enough. She was sore, where he’d been inside her, and there was stickiness between her thighs. A touch there, and a sniff of her fingers, told her it was blood. Sometime, someone had told her about that: women bled. She smeared the blood on her hip, to clean her fingers, and huddled back down. She was reluctant to leave the safety of the covers, go back to her cold, lonely, little nest.

                The door creaked open, slowly, and she turned, holding the covers up to her chin, to see Mr. Gold in the doorway, staring stricken at her. He was leaning heavily on his cane. He did not say anything, though his face was troubled.

                “Do you want me to leave?” she asked, voice small but steady. Their bargain was fulfilled: the dim light in the room was the rising sun. A warm place for the night, and some food. That his touch had been gentle, and his closeness so good it nearly broke her heart, did not matter.

                “No!” he said sharply, then sighed. “No, please, let me get you some food and clothes. You can stay as long as you like.” He spread his hand out, looking helpless, and Belle nodded. He turned and left the doorway, limping away, but returned in a few minutes with women’s clothing that would more or less fit her. He deposited it on the edge of the bed, as if afraid to come nearer, and turned his back. Belle reached for the clothes and put them on, leaving the warm bed with a twinge of regret.

                “I think I bled on your sheets,” she said, straightening her long skirt and sweater. “I’m sorry.” He flinched as though she had struck him, and turned, face pained.

                “Don’t be sorry,” he said, voice low, and held his hand to indicate she should precede him out of the room. “I’ll make you breakfast.”

                His house was crowded and still, like his shop, the wooden floorboards cool but not cold beneath her bare feet. She was hungry again: a dish of oatmeal, with brown sugar and apple bits, waited for her on a table in the kitchen, and she smelled the bitter scent that the nurses sometimes brought, that wafted out of the diner in the mornings.

                The oatmeal was far better than what she was given in her cell, the grains soft, sweetened with the dark sugar. The pawnbroker watched her intently, fidgeting with his cane, a mug of the steaming, bitter black liquid untouched before him.

                “Are you all right?” he asked softly. “I didn’t hurt you too badly?” Guilt tinged his voice, and beyond lurked some other emotion, something she didn’t recognize. Belle shook her head and smiled timidly at him.

                “No, I’m fine,” she said, wondering why he was so diffident. “Thank you for the clothes.” He nodded, looking away.

                “Of course. May I speak with you?” He sat down opposite her and she nodded slowly.

                “Belle,” he began, still not looking right at her. “How did you end up coming to my shop last night?”

                “It was very cold,” she said, and he reached across the table and touched her wrist briefly, finally looking at her eyes.

                “Where have you been?” His dark eyes were haunted, as if he were asking the answer to some other, incomprehensible question. Belle blinked back at him, mesmerized.

                “I was at the hospital,” she said, after a long minute. “I don’t know why.” He nodded grimly, let go of her wrist, and walked around the table to touch her head gently.

                “I’m going to find out for you, all right?” His hand brushed through her tangled hair, so softly she could hardly feel his fingers. “Will you stay here with me?” She twisted her fingers together, staring down at the breakfast he’d made her.

                “I’m fine,” she rasped. “I can’t ask you for more.” She could, and she would pay his price again, but he was in such an odd mood, fright pouring off him, that she didn’t want to ask. “Though… your bed wasn’t unpleasant. It was nice, being so close.” She stopped, heart pounding fearfully, and he wrapped his hands around one of hers and squeezed it, sinking into a chair next to her.

                “Oh, Belle,” he said, and she saw tears form in his eyes, for some reason. His hand shook, still clutching hers, and she reached her free hand out to touch the side of his face, unsure about his tears.

                “It’s okay,” she said uncertainly. A few hot tears dripped over her fingers, and she brushed clumsily at the corners of his eyes.

                “It’s not,” he said shakily. “But it will be, I promise.”


	2. Harsh Light of Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> anonymous prompted: Embrace Verse - Gold recovering his memories and realising the woman he just bedded was Belle. Basically, “Morning After” from his POV, and what happens after breakfast?

Gold left his house unsettled, his knee aching more than usual after the activities of the evening, but the pleasant warmth after climax had not left him yet, so it was with little irritation that he drove to Mrs. Lucas’s to collect the rent. He wanted to stay in bed, holding the woman there, but Belle was exhausted and needed rest. And it would be bad to set a precedent of not coming for the rent the day it was due. There was a yellow Volkswagen bug parked at the curb, one he didn’t recognize, but then again, he had not recognized Belle when she showed up on his steps. Maybe there were a few things left in Storybrooke to discover.

                A blonde woman was taking a key from the Lucas woman when he walked in, and the inn’s proprietor sniffed at his arrival, sticking the roll of cash towards him sourly.

                “It’s all there,” she said, before he could speak, and turned back to the blonde woman. “So, window overlooking the square, Ms…?”

                “Swan. Emma Swan,” the stranger—no, _the savior—_ said, and pocketed the key.

                He almost fell. He had been in the dungeon—he had been in the shop, his new castle—he had been in bed—Rumpelstiltskin clutched the handle of his cane, the pain in his knee familiar for nearly three decades, but also an old irritation.

                “Emma,” he breathed out, forcing away every thought churning in his head, for this critical moment. This _mattered_. This was the woman who would break the curse. “What a lovely name.” She looked nonplussed at his comment: a cautious woman, no fool. A miracle, considering her parentage. “Enjoy your stay in Storybrooke, Miss Swan.” _May it be long and fruitful._ He left the inn, hardly able to keep himself from trembling.

                Bae. How had he forgotten Bae? His son was somewhere in this land, waiting to be found. Hopefully he didn’t hate his coward of a father too deeply, though God knew he deserved it.

                Belle. Memory caught up to him, like a kick in the stomach, and he staggered over to the bushes outside Granny’s and retched, little coming up. She was alive: he allowed himself that comfort for three entire seconds before reality crashed down on him. She was alive, yes, but suffering, for long years here while he sat in his shop, with his trophies and trinkets.

                He’d used her. She’d come to him for help—and that was an irony, because it had unfolded that way before, but he didn’t deal for those particular services the first time around—and he had bargained, with the woman he’d thought dead and gone. Not for money, for information, for help: no, she’d offered her body, and he’d _taken_ it. He still felt the heavy traces of it, as though his bones were softer, warmer than usual, and _God_ , but she had felt wonderful.

                The memory made his heart stir with adrenaline and his gorge rise with self-disgust. Even cold, quiet Mr. Gold had had his doubts about such a deal, but he had made it. Of course—he always made deals with the desperate, and she was one of the desperate.

                The drive back to his house was done blindly, his practice as Gold guiding his hands and feet, as he settled into the new-old body and studied the parts of himself that had been twisted into the pawnbroker and landlord. Not so different from his old self, really.

                His house loomed before him. Belle was inside. In his bed, naked, ruined, confused, and tired. And still the memory of her hands gripping his shoulders as he thrust at her made his breath catch, and the memory of her tight inner flesh around his cock made his heart quicken. He forced it all down, swallowing the urge to lean over and vomit again.

                He could not help Bae until the curse was broken. He could use this time to help Belle instead. Find out where she was, earn her trust—he’d never truly deserve her trust, never deserve anything from her after what he’d just done—and take care of her. Make sure she had clothes and food and shelter and anything she wanted, at all. He felt tears collecting at the corners of his eyes and let them run over his face as he unlocked the door, flinging the damned cane against the wall when he entered.

                Morning found him making Belle breakfast, the kind of food she favored in the Dark Castle, and then brewing coffee in case she liked that. Gold liked coffee, so he had plenty on hand. He found a set of clothes for her and walked upstairs as quietly as he could, hoping that she still slept.

                Instead, she looked up at him when he pushed the door to his bedroom open, covered to the neck in his bedclothes, and he simply stared at her, fighting back more tears, the urge to throw himself at her feet and beg forgiveness. She wouldn’t understand that. She needed a different kind of care, now.

                “Do you want me to leave?” she asked, voice calm and reasonable, and he started. Leave? He wanted her to stay until he died. God, how could he convince her now, after what he had done to her, taken her virtue?

                “No!” he said, too forcefully. “No, please, let me get you some food and clothes. You can stay as long as you like.” He held his hand out for her, realized she would hardly want to get out of bed the way she was, and turned away, fetching the clothes. He left them at the foot of the bed, turning his back and hearing the rustle as she dressed.

                “I think I bled on your sheets. I’m sorry,” she said behind him, and he winced. Of course she had bled: she had been a virgin, and he had stolen that away, from this un-remembering Belle. She had shaken his hand, but had had no idea of what she was doing. His curse. His life’s work. He was no better than a brigand who forced himself on travelers. He swallowed, and turned.

                “Don’t be sorry,” he told her, managing to talk through the lump in his throat. “I’ll make you breakfast.” She went slowly down the stairs, and he watched her through a haze of tears that he couldn’t keep at bay for long. He let the word out, into his head, to torment him, remind him of everything he needed to do to begin to help her. Rape. He’d taken her when she hadn’t realized what was happening. Raped his true love. _He_ was Gold. _He_ had done it.

                Belle sat down and ate steadily, hand resting on the table, and he poured himself coffee and stood watching her, pensive, keeping his face guarded. He had to be Gold, for her. That was who she expected. He studied her face: she was overly thin, bones visible in her hands and face.

                “Are you all right? I didn’t hurt you too badly?” Of course he’d hurt her, more terribly than she even knew, but he had to know if she was in pain beyond what should be normal. She shook her head and gave him a small smile, of all things.

                “No, I’m fine. Thank you for the clothes.” He sat down across from her, glad to hear she didn’t consider herself too abused. Not by him, anyway. God only knew what she had been subjected to during the time he had thought her dead.

                “Of course,” he acknowledged, and studied his coffee. “May I speak with you?” She nodded, looking a little alarmed, and stirred her oatmeal.

                “Belle, how did you end up coming to my shop last night?” If someone had left her on the streets to die, he would kill them, man or woman, and damn the consequences if Regina found out. He had his word to hold over her, if necessary. Secrecy was not imperative.

                “It was very cold,” she said, quietly, and he couldn’t stop himself from reaching out and touching her, trying to comfort her, and met her eyes. As blue as ever, guileless, and too accustomed to hardship and hunger. They held him, struck him down to the bone, as they always had, and he swallowed, trying to search them for a hint of memory.

                “Where have you been?” he whispered. He had sent her away, and she’d died. Regina had lied to him about that, but it was his responsibility, in the end. He’d sent her away. Belle blinked a few times, looking back at him, expressionless.

                “I was at the hospital. I don’t know why.” She had been at the hospital? What had they done to her to make her run away? He walked around the table and stroked her head softly, wondering if his comfort was worth anything.

                “I’m going to find out for you, all right?” His voice was too thick, but he kept his hands on her tangled hair, unable to stop touching her, now that he had started. “Will you stay here with me?” _You won’t want for anything._ She wouldn’t suffer again at his hand.

                “I’m fine. I can’t ask you for more,” she said softly, bowing her head toward the table, and he clenched his teeth. She drew a trembling breath. “Though your bed wasn’t unpleasant. It was nice, being so close.” He couldn’t stand anymore, his legs trembling too much at her words. Not unpleasant? She was going to kill him with her kindness.

                He took her right hand in both of his and sank into the chair next to her, finally unable to hide his tears.

                “Oh, Belle,” he half-sobbed, and she touched his face, then his eyes, with her free hand, looking surprised.

                “It’s okay,” she said, and she was offering _him_ comfort?

                “It’s not,” he said. Nothing was okay, especially her and him. “But it will be, I promise.” He would find out everything, keep her safe. _Forever_ , they’d said, and she would leave when she remembered, but until then, he would guard her as carefully as he could, take care of her the way he had failed to before.

                Her hands on his face cracked his heart all over again, but he could not bring himself to pull away, when the look on her face was so close to the way she had looked at him long ago.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really hope I didn't upset anyone with Rumpelstiltskin's train of thought: he really does think he raped Belle, even if neither of them had free will / their own memories at the time. This is not meant to be a happy story.


	3. The Greatest Peace

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> somethingstately on tumblr prompted Belle and Gold taking a bath together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter gets a 'T' rating.

                She was almost used to the house: there was a great deal of it to become comfortable with. She had sat in nearly every room for hours, simply looking around to absorb the flavor of each. Mr. Gold’s bedroom had rose walls and dark furniture and it was comforting: the first place she had slept there, the place where if she became afraid in the night she could creep into. He let her slip into bed next to him when she woke confused about where she was, and she could fall back to sleep within the dark sheets and the curve of his arm.

                He had given her a bedroom, with pale blue walls and a white-curtained window. The quilt on the bed had a pattern of lilies, and it was soft and warm: enough for her when she wasn’t afraid. It was a cool room, and smelled like some dusty desert herb: Belle knew she had no knowledge of any such plant, but she also knew some things with an instinctual immediacy. She guessed that it must be something she had known in her past coming back for her, like she knew her name, and that once someone had given her a rose.

                Mr. Gold’s house was full of treasures, each heavy with their own stories: she liked to think she could see the weight of their presence as long golden ribbons or ragged black shrouds that stirred whenever one of them passed. So many things, each so distinct, from the gold-chased silver box with inlaid agate to the spider-webby lady’s shawl that sat folded next to it: all must have their own history, the marks of thumbs and stitches readable by the careful-eyed. She liked to look at them, though she never touched any, afraid of disturbing the feathery traces of their stories that laid on them lighter than dust. Their presence made her less lonely when Mr. Gold was away: so many old things should make her feel small, but instead she felt as if everyone who had ever run their fingers over a little statue or adjusted a lampshade was comforting her.

                She preferred Mr. Gold’s presence, but he was usually gone, in his shop or to some other part of his business. He had told her she could go places, back into Storybrooke, but she worried that she wouldn’t be able to find her way back. Logically, she knew that she would, that she knew where every business was, including his shop, but she had found a safe place and she didn’t want to leave it. Why he had given her a room and clothes to wear and food to eat escaped her: she had asked him, when he had gruffly shown her the small, newly clean room and told her it was hers. He’d looked very intently at her and said that he was doing penance for wrongs, and that she deserved a safe place.

                Once, very early in the morning, when her breath gusted white in the air, she walked outside with him, half-fearing, half-welcoming the cold bite of the winter. The air was sharply fragrant with snow and road salt and slumbering grass, and she clung to his left arm, feeling she would melt away like the little icicles that dripped off the eaves every afternoon. Her name was Belle, and someone had given her a rose once, she reminded herself, and turned back towards the house. The house held her in: not the way her little white room had, with the sting of chemicals and rough, spraying showers, but gently. It hid her, sheltered her, let her sit in its corners and feel it all the way to the foundations.

                “You’re cold,” Mr. Gold observed, closing the door behind them and frowning. She was shaking, but only a little from cold. After two weeks inside, the sky had been beautiful, but so huge and bare and exposed that she trembled. After her escape from the hospital, the sky had been so welcoming, but now, when she feared being taken back, it was like a sheet being stripped away.

                “I’m scared of going back,” she whispered, turning and putting her arms around his neck, pushing her face into his shoulder. He wrapped a cautious arm around her waist with his left hand and drew an uneven breath.

                “You’ll never have to go back, Belle,” he murmured, and his voice, though soft, comforting, had an iron surety. “One day I’m going to find out what happened to you, and explain it all, and you’ll get better.” He drew back, and touched his thumbs to the corners of her eyes, brushing away the unspilled tears that brimmed there. “You’re freezing, Belle. You should have a bath.” She nodded, and took his hand in hers, unwilling to let him go. It was early yet.

                “Come with me,” she said, and he even leaned on her a bit as they went upstairs. She wondered if he did it on purpose, to make her feel needed. He could manage on his own, but he let her help. He was a strange man, donning his mask of civil anger when he went on and leaving it behind again for her. What he was for her was half a mask, she thought: he was measured, cautious when he talked and moved around her. For her safety and comfort, she realized, but he was not comfortable with her.

                She let warm water pour from the tap into the bathtub of the bathroom attached to his room, shedding her coat and leaving it on his bed. His jaw twitched at that and something painful flared in his eyes, but he simply stood and took her shoes, walking down the hall to her room and coming back with slippers. She undressed and stepped into the tub while he stood frozen, back turned and shoulders tight.

                “Please come in with me,” she said. She was still shaking, her hand slipping over the containers of shampoo and soap. “I don’t want to be alone.”

                “Belle, I don’t think that’s a very good idea,” he said softly, still not looking over his shoulder.

                “I’ll close my eyes,” she said, and did so. “Please.” She tried to let the warmth of the water seep into her bone as she heard the rustle of cloth, then the soft sound of feet on tile. The water level rose as he stepped in, some splashing onto the floor, and his hands squeaked around the metal bar in the side of the wall. It would be hard for him to sit down, she realized, with a little rush of guilt.

                “You can open your eyes if you like,” he said quietly, and she did so, shyly, suddenly a little wary of meeting his eyes. They were both covered almost to the neck, knees and shoulders only bared, but he was looking adamantly to the right, at the sink, as if it was a snake. Nonetheless, his closeness was a comfort, and she managed to scoop some water into her hands and splash it over her head, trying to dampen her hair. Mr. Gold stirred, glancing over at her, and passed her the bottle of shampoo, flinching when their legs brushed under water. Belle accepted the plastic bottle: this was his, and it smelled like wood and summer grass. He had bought her some that was sweeter: berries and flowers, but she rubbed this into her hair and smiled slightly at the thought that she would smell like him.

                He helped her rinse her hair, hands uncertain, hesitant, as if she were a wounded animal he feared would run from his company.

                “Thank you,” she said seriously, and put her hand on his knee. “I know you haven’t asked to lie with me again. But you didn’t hurt me, and I’m not afraid of you. You make me feel safe. Please don’t be afraid of me.” How could she tell him that when she woke in the night, remembering the way it felt to have pills forced down her throat and sear her belly, that the memory of him so close was a comfort? That when she huddled into her sheets, it was how desperately he had needed her in those moments that made her feel stronger?

                He only looked at her and reached out a finger to trace the side of her face, eyes shocked, humble. The start of tears hung in his eyes, making them overbright.

                “I’ll try,” he said, softly, and put his hand over hers, rubbing her fingers with his thumb.

                “Here,” she said, and scooped some water into her hands. “Let me wash your hair?”

                He looked less like the intimidating man who walked around town with a thunderous expression with his hair plastered to his head and face, and even less so with it full of suds. Belle laughed at him, a slightly broken sound, unused for unknown years, but he smiled broadly at it, an earnest warmth in his eyes. It comforted her to the core and made the last of her fear from going outside melt away. Feeling a sudden courage, as if something had bloomed in her chest, she took up a washcloth, wetted it, and rubbed it over his neck and shoulders, leaning into him. He twitched again, but then smiled uneasily and let her continue down his back, resting his hand on her knee.

                They ended up side-by-side in the murky, slowly cooling water, legs touching, with Belle resting her head on his shoulder. He didn’t seem to want to move, and she felt so safe, but she would get cold, so she shifted and stood, gripping his shoulder for balance. He’d closed his eyes this, she noticed, as she pulled a towel around herself, and wrapped securely in the cloth that smelled and felt like the house, she leaned forward and brushed her forehead against the top of his head. His eyes snapped open and then their corners crinkled at her gesture, and she half-smiled at him, hurrying down to the blue room to find her clothes.

                When she was dressed and standing in the hallway looking at a little hollow glass unicorn with a cork stopper for a horn, she heard the tap of his cane and shoes. He put a cautious hand on her shoulder: just a whisper of a touch, but a pleasant one.

                “You can handle anything you like, Belle,” he said, still using his careful voice. “I want you to feel at home here.” He turned and continued down the hall, leaving her staring after him, hands trembling all over again, but not from fear.

                Her few memories did not extend to home, or safety, but she was making new ones, and if such things crept into them, she was glad. She smiled a little and reached to touch the odd bottle, just for a moment, to add her presence more permanently to everything here.


	4. Everything I Love Is On The Table

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> accio-firewhiskey on tumblr prompted: Embrace, she thinks about him when she's home alone; whatisthisautumnsorcery prompted: Embrace Belle discovers the chipped cup.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> title comes from "Don't Swallow the Cap" by the National, which is what I listened to while writing.

                Mr. Gold left most of his treasures on display, on the low tables and antique dressers that filled every corner of his house. Belle thought that they did not bring him any comfort, though they comforted her when she was alone. He left her alone often, though he always offered that for her to accompany him to the shop. No doubt his shop was full of treasures as well.

                “I hate to see you locked away here all day,” he told her one morning, rubbing his fingers and thumb together unhappily. “You ought to be free to do what you want.” Belle shrugged: she had run away from being truly locked up, and then from her lonesome freedom. This middle ground, this odd trust was not comfortable: she felt half a burden and half a scourge to Mr. Gold, but she knew she would do him some great unkindness if she left. Going back to her nest in winter was not even an option, though, and she liked the house.

                Usually she would rise and wash and dress and bid Mr. Gold goodbye, and he would look sadly at her until she was glad he had left. Maybe it was selfish of her, but she did not want to see him staring at her with guilt and pain in his eyes all day. His reactions to her, the way every piece of him was stretched around her, ready to snap in response to something she did, was not just because he felt guilty about lying with her in exchange for her safety. He looked at her like she was the ghost of someone he’d killed, and listened to her like she was there to offer punishment and mercy alike.

                Belle wished he would just look at her like a person, not something fragile and rare. She was not fragile: she had survived her time locked up, and it had hollowed her out, but not broken her. She was an empty vessel, but she was made of wood or earth, not china.

                He liked china things: he had little china tea sets, china plates on his walls, china vases, china statuettes, china thimbles and shot glasses rolling around in drawers. They were all perfect, painted blue and green and red and pink and gold in delicate lines. Flowers, rivers, little men and women, foxes and birds and cows adorned the pieces, and swirls of perfect geometry made up their borders and sides. He made her tea in the mornings, green and sweet with a splash of milk, and he always poured it into a china teacup, painted with yellow flowers and red birds, or sometimes one with a ludicrous green frog on one side and a pond on the other. Even that was delicate, with its tiny handle and meticulous design.

                Belle knew he had a few clunky coffee mugs in the back of his cupboard, and when she poured herself water to drink during the day, one of those was what she drank from. Her favorite was a bland tan printed with ‘Storybrooke Council’ in faded black lettering, and it was heavy and solid. She didn’t have to worry about damaging it with a careless touch.

                That morning, she looked for it and recalled that she had left it upstairs with a layer of cranberry juice residue inside last night. She would have to bring it down and wash it later: for now, she simply groped blindly in the cupboard, letting her hand close over another vessel. It was a teacup, one of a set she had never seen before, but unlike every other teacup Mr. Gold had in his possession, this one had a chip out of the rim, an obvious blemish.

                The pattern was simple, a stylized blue flower on white, and Belle thought that it was prettier than most of the cups in the house. She left it sitting on the counter, careful not to touch it: he was the type to dispose of broken things that couldn’t be fixed, not keep them. There must be some reason it was in the cabinet. The sight of it made her feel as if something was echoing around inside her skull.

                She wondered about him: he was a cold man in many ways, with his lonely house and his implacable reputation. But she knew, maybe better than anyone else, that his heart beat like anyone’s, that his breath came short when he was with a woman, that there was something dark and bleak scrawled over his heart, weighing down his whole self. Snooping around his house would only confuse her: anything of his would be among everything that wasn’t his, and his patchwork armor was almost impenetrable. She had the odd chipped cup and his diffidence towards her alone and that was all. All she had of herself was her name and her one sure memory, that someone had given her a rose once. Everything else was a strange mixture of scents, and she wasn’t sure which were from the hospital and which from the woods. Maybe none of them were from her deeper past.

                If she thought too long on herself, she started to shake, to lose her focus on whatever she was doing, so she squeezed her hands together tightly and brought together her recent memories. Even if they were not all comforting, they were grounding, kept her firmly in the world. That, maybe, was what the pills were for in the hospital. The memory of her icy feet stumbling on an uneven patch of sidewalk. The taste of potato and carrots in the soup Mr. Gold had given her the first night. The close, uncomfortable-yet-comforting feeling of him inside her. The taste of green tea. The texture of the quilt on her bed.

                When he came back, she was sitting farther from the door than the kitchen. She did not want to explain that she had found his secret teacup stowed away. She knew the moment he saw it, because he gasped and dropped something on the floor.

                “I’m sorry,” she exclaimed, hurrying back into the kitchen. “I found it, and it seemed out of place.” Her words dried up in her throat, because he was smiling so softly, so painfully at her, that tears threatened, and for no reason other than his agony, which was burning in his eyes.

                “It’s fine,” he said tightly. “Just a reminder.” He bent slowly to retrieve what he had dropped, and she saw, with a lurch, that it was a pale rose with a long stem.

                “What’s that?” she asked. He looked at it with a rueful, bitter twist to his mouth, then held it out, not meeting her eyes.

                “It was for you, so you had something lively in the house. Comes from a greenhouse, I think.” His words were gruff, quick, and he was still looking at the chipped cup, but she reached and took it with a shaking hand. It smelled sweet and delicate. She tried to smile at him, but found herself bursting into tears instead, laying the rose down on the counter and sinking half to her knees, covering her face with her hands.

                “Belle,” he said, and then his hands were at her shoulders and waist, the lightest of touches guiding her upright. She put her arms around his neck and her face in his shoulder and simply sobbed, loud, gasping cries that shook her whole body.

                “I’m sorry,” she gasped. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” He rubbed her back, put his arms around her and pulled her tight, stroked her hair with a gentle hand.

                “It’s all right,” he said, though she could the pressure of tears in his voice too. “Belle, don’t be sorry. Please, don’t be sorry.” He was begging her, but for the moment all she could do was cry against him. All of her scant memories were nagging at her, and even if he was afraid of her, didn’t like to touch her, he held her until she subsided into hiccups and sniffs. He gave her the purple handkerchief from his pocket and didn’t seem to mind that she’d cried a saltwater stain into his suit.

                “Someone gave me a rose once,” she said faintly, wiping her eyes and blowing her nose. “It’s the only thing I can remember.” He nodded, and if her confession gave him sorrow, it was on top of so much, she could not tell.

                “Yes,” he said. “I can take it away.” She grabbed at his hand.

                “No, please,” she said. “It’s nice. I’m glad you thought of me when you were away.” She hoped that one had been a good thought, the kind of thought that would provoke him to bring her a rose.

                “Of course I thought of you,” he said, and stepped carefully away from her, unhooking his cane from where it hung on the handle of a drawer. “I’ll put it in a vase.” She watched him cut the end off with a knife and cutting board and put it carefully in a vase from the living room, adding water with a shaking hand.

                “I think of you,” she said quietly, because his silence was not a comfortable one: his shoulders were rigid and high, his fingers moving frantically over one another. His look this time was tempered with gratitude, and she drew him to sit next to her at the kitchen table, looking at her rose in its narrow crystal vase. She took a deep breath, trying to let the faint perfume of the flower and the quiet smell of him calm her down. “I’m not a teacup,” she said, and he blinked. She furrowed her brow, irritated at her inability to say what she meant. “I mean, you don’t have to worry about breaking me. I’m made of stronger stuff than your chipped cup. I’m all worn out and I have some chips, but—I don’t want you to feel bad for me so much.”

                He sat quietly for a long time, twisting his hands together, but she left her hand on his arm to soothe him, while his face drew in and shuttered as he wrestled with his dark thoughts. She wondered if he was doing what she did, when she sat and reminded herself what was real. Finally, he picked up the chipped teacup and pressed it into her hands, mouth twitching as he tried to form words.

                “I know,” he said. “I will try to be less selfish for your sake. I can only try.” His voice was more clipped than usual, and she knew he had retreated a little to hide under the Mr. Gold mask everyone else saw. She stared down at the cup, wondering why he’d handed it to her. He looked at it and squeezed her hands around it. “You worry too, you always hold these things so gently. It takes more than a little rough handling to break one of these.”

                His eyes pled with her to understand something, but she felt his meaning escape her, twist like steam or fog before it reached her mind. She nodded anyway, and set the cup back down on the table, next to the vase, then stood and dared to touch her lips to his forehead, for the briefest moment.   


	5. I Came Home To The Love You Gave

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some of what happened in episode 4, "The Price of Gold."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title comes from the song "Horses of the Sun" by Bat For Lashes.

                Belle was afraid to leave his house. Rumpelstiltskin hoped that with time, she would regain her bravery: the boldness that had let her look him in the eye when they made their deal. In the meantime, she crept around his house, similar to the way she’d crept around the Dark Castle: looking at things, trying to puzzle out their meanings, their stories.

                He’d given her a room, but sometimes she would creep into his in the night and slide under his covers, burrowing into him, as though he was somehow safe. She would tremble more from fear than cold, and huddle against his chest until he wrapped his arms around her, and she would press her face into his neck and breastbone. Those nights turned into mornings graced with aching limbs and both of them sweaty and over-warm, but if it helped her sleep, he would not begrudge her it.

                He’d showed her how the stove worked, and she’d taken to it easily, poring over his recipe books and spending some of her time making food. He was glad: even if her creations did not always work out, it was better that Belle spent her time doing something rather than sitting in his house and dwelling on her hurts. He still did not know how she came to be starving on the streets, or why—when he had bullied his way into the records room—there were no papers for a patient named Belle.

                So he gave her tea and eggs and oatmeal in the morning, watched her twist his spoons in pale fingers, and held his tongue. She was afraid to leave: he did not want to make her afraid in the only place she had left. She was not afraid of him, for some reason, and he preferred to keep it that way.

                The only upside was that Regina had no idea he remembered, and Belle’s staying in let him keep up that charade. If she sniffed out his secret, all was not lost, but he preferred to hold as many cards as he could for as long as he could. That small benefit only made him feel guilty about profiting from Belle’s fear, so if he stalked around town with a little more snarl in his teeth, he did so pitilessly.

                His shop, full of his trophies, from ages gone by and things once owned by Storybrooke’s cursed peasants, was no longer his comfort: it had been Gold’s sanctuary, and the things inside it were important, but Belle was not in the shop with him. She would not pick up the telephone, so he could not call her, even at a predetermined time, so afraid was she of discovery. He worried about her, while he looked over the contracts Gold had written, while he polished his inventory, while he watched out the window as time rolled over Storybrooke and spring made inroads.

                She had kissed him, when he had come back with a flower: had pressed her lips to his forehead and told him she was not made of china. He unsettled her, he had realized then, though he had been trying very hard not to. She would sleep in his arms for comfort and lie her head against him in the bath, but he still disturbed her. He would happily forsake every touch if she were calm in his presence, he thought, as he locked up the shop. There was something he could do, no doubt, to make her feel better: another flower might not be a good idea. Maybe a book, one he didn’t have at home.

                He saw Ashley Boyd lingering around the alley and backtracked in time to see her break the door window with a brick. He hissed in irritation and went around the back, relishing her surprised gasp when he stepped in front of her.

                “What are you doing, Ashley?” he asked. But she glared back at him and spat,

                “Changing my life!” and then her arm moved, and his eyes were _burning_ , and he dropped his cane, clutching his face. His head struck something, and then his vision left.

                He woke up with his eyes all but crusted shut, and a dull, deep pain in his skull. The pain in his eyes was a partially numbed stinging, now, and he’d been hit in the head before. His keys were on the ground, not in his pocket, and the door to his documents safe was still open.

                Well. Tomorrow he could deal with Ashley. He struggled to his feet and into the little washroom in the back of the shop, rinsing his eyes as best as he could and dabbing at the cut on his forehead. The road before him as he drove home was a little blurry, but it was already after ten o’clock and Belle would be worried.

                He was right: his house was dark, but when he unlocked the door and called out softly, he heard a gulping noise, and then there was a cautious pair of hands on his arm. He flicked on the hall light, and saw Belle move her hands nervously over his arm.

                “Are you okay?” she asked, and her voice was thick with tears. He nodded, but she saw the cut on his head and gasped, shrinking in on herself and wrapping her arms around her middle, then reaching towards him again. “No, you’re not,” she said, and led him into the living room, sitting him down on the couch. “What happened?”

                “Someone robbed me,” he said, in the calmest voice he could muster, and held onto her hands. “I will get everything back: I’m just a little sore and teary-eyed.” Belle made a soft noise at his red eyes, and brushed her thumbs under his eyes. Then she sat down next to him, and he half-expected her to lean her head into his chest, as she always did. But she tugged him so that she was cradling him, and after a few minutes, they shifted so that he was lying with his head in her lap and eyes closed. She pulled her fingers softly through his hair, and he could feel them still shaking.

                “Belle,” he began, but she shushed him.

                “Let me hold you for once,” she said, and he couldn’t help but turn his head and open his eyes to look up at her. She was giving him the smallest smile, and he reached up to touch the side of her face.

                “Thank you,” he managed, because he didn’t deserve to have his true love petting him and comforting him after all he’d done to her.

                He woke, hungry, and found himself still on the couch, but alone. His eyes hurt less, and when he reached a hand to his head, he touched a paper bandage. Belle was sleeping in a chair, curled up, her feet covered in a pair of his black socks, which drooped around her ankles. The tall clock against the wall ticked softly, and he glanced over to see that it was about four. He wished he could be the kind of man who could pick her up and carry her to her bed, so that she could sleep properly, but he simply groped for his cane, knocked it over with a sleepy hand, and woke her.

                “Sorry, Belle,” he said softly, and she sat up, putting her head on the floor. “You must be tired.” She shrugged in the dim room, and walked over to him, handing him his cane.

                “I left the hall light on low, in case you woke in the night and didn’t know where you were.” He studied her face: it was still thin, almost bony, with her cheekbones sharply distinct. In the faint yellow light, he could see that her lips were less chapped and cracked than before, but not smooth and whole as she deserved.

                “Do you forget where you are?” he asked, almost afraid to know. What if she woke up and thought she was in her cell? She shook her head and squeezed his free hand, leading him toward the kitchen.

                “Not when I sleep next to you,” she said, voice low, and his hold on the cane wavered and he paused.

                “Why?” he asked, helplessly. She sat him down at the table and put her hands on his shoulders, looking down at him with some kind of grace. Her hand brushed at his hair, his bandaged cut, the edge of his jaw.

                “When I’m touching you, I am not alone, and I know where I am.” Rumpelstiltskin closed his eyes, feeling tears sting and cleanse the last of the mace. He caught her hand in his and brought it hesitantly to his lips. He had no right to touch her, not with his hands or mouth, not when he’d—thinking about it made his stomach turn—not when he’d made her agree to let him touch her, traded her her life in exchange for her body. But if it made her feel better—he barely brushed her skin with his mouth, and she smiled brightly back at him, the same way she’d smiled in his old fortress.

                “Do you feel safe?” he asked her, and she tilted her head, smile fading.

                “When you’re here, I do. I don’t want you to be hurt. I don’t want you to send me away.” She wetted her lips, and he stood, shakily, holding her head over his heart. He had never been a man to make grand gestures, except in his showmanship, so his voice shook and he almost feared to meet her eyes.

                “I won’t. Never, Belle,” he faltered, throat tightening, and her arms wrapped around him tightly. Her soft, still-skinny frame pressed against him, all flannel and soft cotton and heat, and he couldn’t stop himself from breathing in the smell of her hair when she buried her face against his neck. Cautiously, he put his free hand over her back, rubbing between her shoulders.

                He had things to take care of: he had to deal with Ashley, and the savior, and Regina. But for now, Belle was holding him and smiling into his neck, and though her gratitude made him want to wither to ash, it was wonderful knowing she wouldn’t leave. He would protect her, and be hers to hold whenever she wanted. If she was still afraid to leave the house, he would not press her to leave. If she wanted to go, she could go.

                He watched her sip her tea with her kind eyes on him, and hoped she would not fall in love with him in this world, when he was an even worse man than he’d been before. 


	6. Filling Spaces In Your Sheets

                Mr. Gold was out on business, despite his wounded head, and Belle had gone back to sleep for most of the morning. The night had been unpleasant, and she felt better curled under the covers, though they would not stop another robber from hurting her. The thought pricked at her once she woke up, and she darted from the false safety of the bed only to take sips of water and use the bathroom. Best to make sure that no robbers could know she was here.

                The light walls and soft fabrics of her room made her feel better. There were many rooms in Mr. Gold’s house, some with darker shades and heavier furniture, but she preferred hers to all of them but his. The bed was light wood, and there was a nightstand of the same wood next to the bed with a pink-shaded lamp and the books she’d collected from the house. The blue walls reminded her of the sky, which had curved over her so gently while she was wild and alone, and the wooden floor was covered in a warm rug. Her bed was a comforting nest, the sheets smelling like sweet dust and herbs.

                Still, even huddled under the covers, every sound made her twitch and slide her head beneath the quilt again, though the air underneath was stuffy. Mr. Gold would think she was foolish for hiding all day, but she couldn’t come out when he wasn’t there to protect her, and she worried at her lip and fingers with her teeth all day long, wishing she had the courage to go out and protect him.

                If someone had found out where she was, and Mr. Gold wasn’t there to stop them, they would take her back to her white cell, where there was no warmth and no sky. No arms to hold her.

                The sound of the door opening accompanied by the click of his cane downstairs had her hurtling on unsteady feet towards the front of the house, the cold stairs sticking on her overwarm, sweaty feet. She reached him breathless, coming to a sudden halt a few feet away. He always looked as if her touches were blows, though he never shied away.

                “Are you all right, Belle?” he asked, voice a little surprised. Feeling foolish, she twisted her hands together and lowered her eyes.

                “I was worried whoever robbed you last night might come here next,” she confessed. He reached out and his fingers brushed against the sleeve of her nightgown, brows turning downward into a frown.

                “Did you eat anything today?” She shook her head. In truth, she hadn’t noticed: even after her weeks here, her belly was still used to being empty. A single day of hunger was not much to trouble her. He walked toward the kitchen, indicating she should follow. She stood hovering at his elbow as he set a pan of water to boil and left a box of spaghetti on the counter.

                “Sorry,” she said nervously. She had fallen into the habit of making their dinner. Mr. Gold’s face twisted for a moment, as it sometimes did. He shook his head.

                “You’re not obliged to do anything,” he said firmly. “I’ll explain, and you won’t have to worry. Not about the robber, anyway.” Belle frowned, sure there was something he was implying with that, but too tired and frazzled from her day of near-panic to understand it.

                “What will I have to worry about?” she said bluntly, taking up the box of noodles and switching it from hand to hand.

                “Me,” he said flatly, voice far harsher than when he usually spoke to her. “You know I’m not a kind man.” The last was said softly, almost desperately, as if he wanted her to agree with him. She sat neatly in a kitchen chair.

                “Tell me, then,” she said, because there was no point in arguing. He stood across from her, leaning heavily on his can and looking intently at the floor, for long moments before he spoke, and when he did, it was in a clipped, half-guilty, half-aggravated tone.

                His story of a contract and a pregnant girl and a new deal settled like ice in her stomach: she knew, she had seen him around, but the part of him that was the dealmaker had receded in her eyes, with the advent of the kinder man he hid when not in his house. She stared at the table for a long moment, then glanced back at him. He had a look in his eyes of the bitterest triumph as she chewed at her lip.

                “I understand,” she said finally, because she found she cared far more about the bruise on his forehead than the ramifications of his deal. “A promise is a promise.” Mr. Gold released his breath sharply, settling shakily into a chair. Belle rose and tended to the boiling water, adding the noodles, then turned back to him. He was turning his cane in his hands, face set unhappily. “Did you think you would frighten me?” He laughed a little, not a happy laugh.

                “Yes,” he said simply. She tilted her head to the side and rested her hand over his restless ones.

                “I was frightened when you came back hurt, that it is all.” She contemplated the boiling noodles, trying to let the sweet smell of hot starch calm her thoughts. “Kindness isn’t—isn’t part of the deals you make,” she managed finally. “That’s why it’s a deal.”

                His face froze, as if a shutter had descended over it, and she watched as his eyes turned downward, ashamed, and felt his hands go rigid under hers.

                “Indeed,” he choked out, and she couldn’t understand why his voice wavered so, why he pulled his hands away and wouldn’t look at her. Then she realized, with a sick, cold feeling far worse than when she had heard his story, what he must have taken from that. That which plagued him most about her, for a reason she hadn’t discovered yet, must lie at the front of his thoughts.

                “I wasn’t looking for kindness, and you gave it to me anyway,” she said, fumbling to fix her mistake. “And changing the deal was a kindness for your robber as well.”

                “I gave you less than kindness, Belle,” he said harshly. She pressed her palms firmly against his hands, to reassure him with touch if words didn’t mean anything, and drained the noodles for them, switching off the stove. Watching the flame wisp away with that odd click never failed to make her smile a bit: fire so easily called and bidden and dismissed. For some reason, the thought astounded her.

                “Will you teach me to use the machine for your coffee?” she asked, after she had eaten a little: her belly, empty all day from her fear, was rejoicing at the addition of nourishment. Mr. Gold looked up, startled out of his moroseness, and nodded. The smell of coffee was the same smell that had permeated her cell, brought by the white-clad nurse, but Mr. Gold added milk and sugar to his, softened it and turned it a warm brown. He drank it every morning, and always offered some to her, but she found it bitter.

                The coffee maker was composed of a host of parts that had to be rinsed and snapped into place, as well as a great deal of buttons, though only one needed pushing to make the coffee he drank. Belle found it far more confusing than the stove, which was just a flame that she could adjust with a single knob. Mr. Gold seemed to enjoy teaching her, though, sticking the spoonful of coffee under her nose and making her turn away to sneeze when she inhaled some. She even tried some, mixed half and half with milk, after it was ready, and he smiled at her, and she breathed out in relief that he seemed to have put her words from his mind.

                When he headed for bed, and she to wash before doing the same, she kissed his cheek, enjoying the smell of sharp soap and dust and sweet coffee that lingered on him, and withdrew. One day, he would be able to kiss her, and feel her touches simply as they were, not as curses or benedictions. The way he had that first time, and for some reason couldn’t again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title from the song "Candles" by Daughter.


	7. They Say Love Is A Virtue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> for somethingstately's birthday present.

                Mr. Gold was having nightmares: he would wake up breathing hard and jerk, then sigh and go too still. He would never reach out to touch her, the way she reached out to him when she woke, disoriented from skyless cells in white and grey, freezing and burning up. He would always wake quickly and enfold her in his arms, stroke her back until she was sleepy again, or if it was early, until the sun rose. Sometimes she woke crying and he would let her bury her face in his chest until she calmed down.

                As soon as the night ended, as the sky turned pink and blue and violet, she would be fine, and so would he. She would walk through the house and read the books while he was away, and maybe soon she would venture past the edge of the back garden, a little farther from the shelter of the house. He left for his shop, and sometimes he came back tense, but never frightened.

                She knew fright, and it found him in darkness, shook him from rest and left him trembling next to her. She would touch his shoulder, pet his hair a little, but he would turn so still when she did that after a few days, she hesitated. Maybe he would rather sleep alone. She should try to go back to her own bed, be able to sleep without him breathing next to her.

                Belle picked flowers from the back garden as spring came along, purple and white irises like flags and daffodils that poked from beds all overgrown with grass. It was nearly warm enough that she could leave, find her place in the woods again. As pretty as everything was, wrapped in sunshine and new green growth, she did not want to lie down with only goldenseal and trillium for company. She put the flowers in jars in the kitchen and bedrooms and learned more complicated foods, and though Mr. Gold still looked at her with more sadness than anything, sometimes there was a flicker of amusement when she found a silly poem to show him or burned something.

                Still, bright mornings and calm days and pleasant evenings gave way to nights where one or the other woke up sweating and gasping and weeping, and he turned away from her until the fragile closeness between them strained like a taut thread.

                So one night, when she could tell he was upset, frightened to sleep because of waiting demons, Belle reached over him and touched his face with her hand, cupping his cheek gently. He became even tenser, his hand balling into a fist next to her, and she rose onto one elbow to kiss his temple. A small, sad noise broke from his lips, and she pressed up close to him, half-draping her body over his. He’d been so calm, so rested, the first time, and she wanted to watch him claw his way towards that peace again. And the promise of being skin to skin, flesh to flesh, tugged at her. She’d been needed, wanted, touched closely. He would touch her now, but not so hungrily, as if she was crystal and china instead of bone and blood.

                When she tried to tug him over her again, kissed his neck, he sat upright, shaking her off easily, trembling.

                “Why won’t you touch me?” she said, not daring more than a whisper. The scent of sweat mingled with the faint, clean fragrance of daffodil and the faded, sharp smell of furniture polish: he was nervous, hands clenching at the bedsheets.

                “You don’t owe me,” he said, in a cold, clipped tone. Belle shrank back at first, then realized that he was only speaking that way to hide his upset. She sat up next to him.

                “I know—I want to. Mr. Gold—“ he hissed, turning further away from her. “You did want to, that first time,” she ventured. “I liked being so close to you. I want to be close.”

                “I can’t.” He spoke with finality, standing up and grasping his cane. “Just—don’t ask me, Belle.” He limped more than usual, she thought, as she watched him leave the room, and she wilted in the center of the bed, curling into the warm spot he’d left and feeling a few tears gather in her eyes. There must be something different about her, after that first night and morning, that made him flinch away. She had lost what had calmed him, whatever he wanted.

                All her thoughts of being touched, of making him calm, sunk like the sodden leaves in the bottom of the garden, and she retreated fully under the covers, knowing he would not like to be pursued.

                She would not sleep, in case she slipped into more dreams of white astringent spaces, and so she could hear him when he woke from the thorns of his sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title comes from the lyrics to "Sea of Love" by the National.


	8. Love Is A Risk

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> anonymous prompted: Gold dreaming that his Dark One self is angry with him. The POV-flip for "They Say Love Is A Virtue."

Rumpelstiltskin was finding it harder and harder to fall asleep next to Belle: she would cuddle up next to him, breathe next to his chest like he was worth it, grip his shoulders with her small, strong hands when she woke up afraid. He didn’t begrudge her one moment of comfort, even if she was making a mistake by finding it in his arms. But he was restless: the dreams he woke from were familiar ones, and here he couldn’t get out his wheel and spin his thoughts away.

  
There were two: Baelfire’s hand slipping from his—let go of—and disappearing in a flash of green, and the one where Belle turned to ash and mist and tattered bloody fabric in his shaking hands. They were like twin scourges, making his nights painful and waking up next to Belle a blessing and trial. She would always offer to hold him, but he knew she was still fragile, still confused, and it was his responsibility, for once in his life, to be the strong one.

  
She was already saving his days the way she had in their past lives. The flowers in the half-wild garden made their way into mason jars and vases, filling his new castle with a breath of life and the promise of summer. He came home to her cooking things on the stove, a recipe book open on the counter, and it pricked him with guilt but also warmth. If she felt she needed to do something, to help, he would let her. He might feel better if she would simply take her leisure and read all day, but Belle was a doer.

  
The new dream came the day she left the earliest rose blossom in a juice glass on the nightstand of his room. The bushes behind his house were ragged and untrimmed for three decades, but they had produced a pale pink, tiny flower, and Belle had found it and brought it inside.

  
“Why do you bring the flowers inside?” he asked her, half-wishing she would just sleep somewhere else. Waking up alone was a familiar ache, though he hated the heavy weight of grief. Waking up accompanied always brought on the sharp, sickening feeling of guilt. There was no escaping either for more than a brief moment. Belle turned to look at him, huddling under the sheets and setting her book aside as he slid under the covers. The nights were still cold, though warmer than they had been, for two reasons.

  
“They will die outside as well. But this way we can see them.” It was a simple thought, and he tried to hold onto it as he laid awake, tried to dream about Belle’s flowers instead of slipping into his familiar tracks.  
This time, he was back in his castle, Mr. Gold’s cane in his hand and clad in his suit and shoes. Everything was as he had left it: spinning wheel in the corner, axes and tapestries decorating the walls. He turned toward the pedestal holding a small chipped teacup, and tried to move it—Belle was alive—and couldn’t. It was held down firmly, and trying to pull at it only left cracks in the sides and rim.

  
When he turned away, he could see that the cloth had fallen off the mirror, and his reflection was staring back at him, gold-flecked, lizard-eyed, monstrous. He frowned slightly, and his reflection jerked onto its toes and shouted at him.

  
“You monster, Rumpelstiltskin!” He flinched away from himself, but he stepped right out of the mirror, holding up a stiff hand, one blackened fingernail stretched out to point at him. “You think because you’re not wearing this body anymore, you’re less a beast? You think you deserve any part in any of that boy’s stories?” He limped back, unable to do anything but shake his head. “At least like this you could walk!” He was sprawled on the floor somehow, cane dropped and lost, while his past roared at him. “You sick bastard! You hurt the woman you love! She was dead!”

  
“She’s not,” he whispered, voice cracking, but his other self was standing over him in fury.

  
“You forced yourself on a dying, starving woman! You could have done what any other person would have done, offered her food and warmth and somewhere to sleep that wasn’t with you!” Rumpelstiltskin shrank back down, cringing away from the words, shaking his head.

  
“No, she—she couldn’t go back to the hospital, it frightened her—“

  
“You frighten her! She was brave, now she’s scared! You’ve ruined her, like you ruin everything you touch, Rumpelstiltskin! She would have been better never meeting you, because you might as well have killed her!”

  
He woke with a start, trembling and sweating into the bedclothes, and turned away from the questioning, gentle, sleepy little noise Belle made, settling onto his side, facing away from her. Her fingers brushed his shoulder gently and she squeezed his upper arm, trying to comfort him.

  
The next night, he stared up at the ceiling for long hours, terrified to sleep. He always was, and when he’d had the Dark One’s powers, he rarely had. Sleep for him was neither oblivion nor bliss. Still, Belle was next to him, and he had an ugly thought that she was like one of her clipped flowers, waiting to wither. Like her chipped cup, though she kept telling him she was not as fragile as he thought. But she had not seen how completely capable he was of destroying things, or she would realize that he was as dangerous as he said.

  
He tried to direct his thoughts towards something positive, or at least something neutral, so he could rest if he could not sleep. Belle moved next to him, and his mind lurched into where it always wanted to go, into the future where she was his wife, a future that was never coming. She reached her hand out, and touched the side of his face gently. He never understood why her soft touches never left the bone-deep bruises he deserved, but he forced himself to stay still, and wished she would have the sense to stay away from him. The mattress dipped down a little, and he felt the warm pressure of her lips on the side of his head.

  
The small, broken near-sob that left him at the gesture threatened to rip his lungs apart, and he wanted to run away, wanted to curl up around her and never let go again. Belle leaned over him, resting her body partially over his, digging her knee into his and ending up with an elbow against his stomach. She kissed him again, on the neck, and brought her fingers to his shoulders, dragging him towards her. She thought—she thought he would want—he sat up, quickly, leaving her to snatch her hands away.

  
He had never been gladder that he couldn’t see her face in the dark, because he had no right to even look at her. No right to sleep beside her, as though he deserved any comfort from Belle. Belle, who he’d dealt with and for in cruelty and greed, and who kept trying to give with a smile, where he’d ruined and raped.

  
“Why won’t you touch me?” She sounded hurt, in the dark, and he couldn’t think why, unless she thought maybe he would force her out if she didn’t keep the deal—he was going to make himself ill.  
“You don’t owe me,” he said, speaking through his teeth. There were tears gathering at his eyes, ready to slide down.

  
“I know, I want to. Mr. Gold—“ she had no other name for him, but the appellation stung like acid, and he flinched further away. “You did want to, that first time.” Oh, he had, hadn’t he, greedy for flesh and release and ready to use the pretty beggar on his doorstep. “I liked being so close to you. I want to be close.” He was going to throw up. She wasn’t leaning towards him, wasn’t trying to touch him, and he was glad, because he would burst into dust if she did. She was saying—she wanted—she must be confused, because he’d been cold and not gentle while he used her body. Gold’s memories were crystal clear on that part.

  
“I can’t. Just—don’t ask me, Belle.”

  
He managed to speak and keep his breath steady as he left the room, and he forced himself downstairs, being quiet for her sake, when all he wanted was to lash out and break everything he owned.  
Instead, he sat down in one of the kitchen chairs and sobbed, till he was sure he could not even bear to sit, and was exhausted from shaking. He’d ruined everything, as he’d thought, and if this was what he did to Belle, when he was supposed to be helping her, how would his search for Bae go?

  
Belle roused him from a half-sleep with the creak of the door to the back garden and a short, sudden gust of cold air. He blinked himself alert, banishing some of his muzziness from the unhappy night, and when she came back she was holding a dew-soaked white-and-peach daffodil and looking at him uncertainly. She laid the flower on the table in front of him, and he reached out and brushed her hand for a moment. She smiled at him, and then somehow he was clinging to her, sobbing and shaking, fresh tears running into her nightgown.

  
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he gasped, and he thought he must have startled her, but she only hugged back tightly with her thin arms and let him cry. “I’m sorry for everything, Belle.”

  
There might have been words from her, and he would have tried to listen, but he was holding her, properly, for the first time in a long time, and she was rubbing his back, and there was no way he could stop weeping.

  
She felt nearly the same as when he’d caught her, and he let that soothe him, let himself think that perhaps Belle was made of stronger stuff than him, and she would not crumple as easily as her flowers always did.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> title from the Brand New song "Play Crack The Sky."


	9. I Am Grounded

                She was becoming restless in Mr. Gold’s house: she shouldn’t be, when all she had had for so long were four white walls and a bench, but she was. The house was lonely: when he was gone, all she had was her own thoughts, and without the need to scavenge food and gather leaves for her nest, they had room to spill out and wander.

                On the weekends, he closed his shop early and came home, and one day she waited for him in the kitchen, in one of the dresses he’d given her, and a sweater over that. She made a small dinner, and set it on the stovetop to keep warm until he arrived, fidgeting with her water glass while she considered her decision.

                “Hello, Belle,” Mr. Gold was very quiet, and he was shutting the door behind him before she had really registered he had come in. He smiled, eyes softening and saddening when he saw her, and hung up his coat.

                “Hello,” she returned. “I made us dinner.” He rolled up his sleeves and washed his hands before sitting down across from her. Belle watched him cut up his food, nibbling at hers and glancing around the kitchen. She liked eating in here, even if this table sometimes felt the chaotic center of the house. “I was thinking—I might like to walk around the block with you?” She glanced at his face, which was very calm, eyes shuttered. “Unless—unless you want me to stay inside.”

                “No, no!” he said quickly, reaching his hand for hers. “I’d be happy to walk with you, of course. We can leave whenever you like.” He touched her hand gently, and then let go. “I’m glad you want to go out.”

                She found her shoes, which she only wore when she ventured into the backyard, and he brought her a coat: a little bit too big for her, but warm. The sun was low when they stepped outside, Belle was glad to see. Hopefully no one would see her, and wonder what a fugitive was doing on a walk. She said as much to Gold, who turned his head to give her an odd look as he locked the front door behind them.

                “You don’t look like a fugitive, you look like a perfectly normal young woman,” he said firmly, and she wrapped her hand around the upper portion of his left arm as they descended the steps. She was plenty to lean on, and while she was sure she wanted to see things, she didn’t want to let go of him.

                There were a lot of trees that cast heavy shadows on the sidewalks, and Belle liked that. There was no one in sight, but the houses on the street looked out on them, and she kept her head bowed down, counting seams and cracks in the cement. Mr. Gold’s arm was thick and real and comforting under her fingers, and she clenched it, unwilling to let her hands shake.

                He stopped at the first corner and adjusted his cane until he had a hand free to lift up her chin. She blinked into his concerned eyes, thinking the golden brown color of them was like the oak and sweet gum leaves that she had nestled under during the winter.

                “Are you okay?” She nodded, trying to smile a little.

                “Yes, of course.” He turned his head to the side, mouth settling into a line.

                “You’re looking down,” his voice was sad, and she held his arm tighter.

                “I don’t want anyone looking out a window to see me,” she admitted, and then found herself pulled in against his chest, his free arm strong across her shoulders.

                “Why don’t we walk home, and then drive to somewhere where you don’t have to worry? Out into the woods, maybe?” Belle nodded, and managed to keep her eyes more or less directed at the horizon instead of the dirt for most of the walk back. Mr. Gold put his left arm around her shoulders, and she held his hand where it curled around her arm instead.

                He watched her nervously as he opened the door of his car for her, and she climbed inside, startled by the smell of it. She had forgotten the leathery, slightly burnt smell of it, and did the seatbelt with shaky hands.

                “We don’t need to go,” he said earnestly, looking very upset, and she smiled, a little better this time.

                “It’s not my memories that scare me,” she said firmly. His mouth twisted in a wry curl.

                “Mine do,” he said roughly, and turned back to the controls of the car. “I don’t think I’ll ever forgive myself.” Belle waved her fingers idly, shaking her hands.

                “If you want forgiveness, you have mine, though I don’t think there’s anything to forgive.” He snorted, and she looked cautiously out the window as they skirted around Main Street. “I used to steal vegetables out of people’s gardens, and from the trash behind the diner.” She pointed to a side door of a little hair salon. “They always get takeout at lunch and leave half of it in the boxes.” Her tales did not seem to be comforting Gold, who only frowned deeply and shook his head.

                “I shouldn’t have demanded anything of you,” he said, voice sharp and tight, as though he didn’t want to cry. “Anyone else would have just taken you in.” His voice trembled, and she saw him clench his hands around the steering wheel.

                She didn’t argue. She had offered. He did deals, not charity work.

                He drove into the forest, and she liked seeing all the trees more than she’d expected to, with their leaves peeking out in fresh green that must be beautiful in daylight. He parked on the side of the road and led her up a little path to the top of a hill.

                “You know these woods pretty well,” she said. She only knew her little section, near his shop, and maybe she wouldn’t recognize it in spring. He nodded, and pointed up.

                “Without the streetlights,” he said in explanation, and Belle gasped in delight. The stars were brilliant, white and shining pure and cold. She pressed her hands to her mouth, then grabbed his, smiling properly, widely. The black sky turned deepest blue and violet where the faint brush of the Milky Way pressed aside the darkness, and she could make out blue and red gleams among the common white.

                “Thank you,” she said thickly. In the woods, she’d huddled so deep in her nest she hadn’t watched the stars, sheltering in the earth. Now, though, she felt she was floating as she turned, trying to take everything in, Gold’s hand and her feet on the muddy ground the only solid things in the world.

                “You’re welcome,” he said quietly, and his voice was a bare whisper, quiet and still like the stars above them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "I am good and I am grounded..."


	10. Take The Wild Ones They're My Favorites

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> dreams-love-magic on tumblr prompted: Embrace, he gives her a gift for Valentine's and she asks him why

                This year’s unusually early spring still had cold nights, and every morning Rumpelstiltskin woke up convinced that the gone-wild daffodils in the garden would be frozen over, and Belle disappointed. But dew alone appeared each morning on the flowers and the growing spikes of green, not frost. Accordingly, there was usually a new flower on the kitchen table when he came home every evening, its long stem in fresh water.

                He ought to be thinking more about how best to help Emma Swan, but she was settling into her role as opposition to Regina, and that was well for now. Belle’s happiness was important, and when he was with her, in his house, he could only think about her. She still slept in his bed, and he thought she had a few less nightmares, now. She still disliked to go out except during the nighttime, when they drove to look at the stars.

                Sometimes he wondered if it would be worth it to ask her to talk to Dr. Hopper: for all that the cricket had been cursed into his knowledge, it was valid. He didn’t know what to say to her: telling her he’d once been locked up alone for months would not engender more trust. He didn’t deserve more trust.

                All his thoughts eventually slid around, like noxious water moving downhill, to that one point. He shouldn’t be taking care of Belle, he didn’t deserve her smiles when he’d hurt her so badly, so many times. He didn’t deserve to kneel at her feet and beg forgiveness, though she’d given it quickly and without a second thought. He was a man of dust and straw and salt, and the only reason he hadn’t crumbled was because Belle depended on him. And she shouldn’t.

                He donned the suit and mask of Mr. Gold every morning, to deal with Emma Swan and Regina and all the rest of the blind, stumbling people of Storybrooke, and tried to shut away Bae’s father and Belle’s broken love. He mostly succeeded, he thought. Having Belle back, after a fashion, was not making him a better man: they’d found out it couldn’t, hadn’t they, years ago?

                He wondered, morbidly, what exactly she would do to him when the curse broke. When hurt piled upon hurt, and the list of his crimes stretched to things she shouldn’t forgive.

                It was Valentine’s Day, in this land, holiday of love, and the stores filled up with ugly pink paper printed with cartoon sketches and foil-wrapped cheap chocolates. Sir Maurice—Moe French, here—had his van full of flowers, selling roses and carnations to people married to other people’s loves. At least Regina hadn’t thought to tie him to some princess or lady she especially despised, though she had paired off more than a few people incorrectly.

                He doubted this man recalled he had a daughter: there was no look of loss about the face that parents had. He knew that feeling perfectly, and Moe French showed no signs. Still, he passed by the man when he could have repossessed his ugly van. He was Belle’s father, after all. He could give her other mercies, even ones she wouldn’t know. Less pain later, perhaps.

                It would be too much presumption to buy Belle a gift on a lovers’ holiday. For all that true love had once fluttered between them, as fleeting and painful as a wasp, they had never been lovers. Never shared a courtship, or a dance. Never shared a bed the way it was meant to be shared.

                This world, and the last, wanted to sell love as something sweet as sugar, soft as down, but the truth was that love was sweeter, as sweet as poison berries, and softer, as soft as snow falling. The most powerful magic in the world was a drowning storm, not a warm meadow. Love as it should be felt was a scourge: even if it wasn’t made of guilt, as his was, it should be dark with fear.

                He stopped, on his journey home, to buy flowers from Maurice anyway, and the best chocolate the drugstore had to offer. David Nolan was fiddling with two cards behind him, and he couldn’t resist a jab. What a pathetic man the shepherd had turned into in this land. Of course, he brushed off the accusation, and stared at the chocolates as the perpetually ill dwarf shoved them into a plastic bag. He had left the flowers in his car, thankfully: they would only invite a question as well as what approached a drooling stare.

                Belle was sitting in the kitchen, as usual, and looked up with a curious expression at the sight of his flowers and the gold cardboard box. The damn thing wasn’t heart-shaped, but it still was a bad idea. She wasn’t his lover. She wasn’t his to buy things for.

                “Hey, Mr. Gold,” she said softly, and smiled at him. He managed to smile back, though it felt weak. “What are the flowers for?” He glanced down, as though he had forgotten the bundle of roses that felt like lead in his hand.

                “I know that it’s not quite right—but it is Valentine’s Day,” he managed to spit out, and looked pleadingly at her. If she would only take them, and keep them or toss them aside. Belle didn’t move, only grew a slight furrow between her brows.

                “I know,” she said softly. “I’ve learned about it from reading. Who are the flowers from?” She couldn’t—she couldn’t remember her father. He was cursed out of her mind.

                “From a florist,” he said, and Belle’s face only turned more confused.

                “Why did you get them?”

                “For you,” he said, whispering because his voice would crack otherwise. She stood up suddenly, her chair making a scraping noise against the kitchen floor, and walked up to him. A warm hand took the bouquet from his hand, and she smiled tremulously.

                “Oh,” she said, eyes shining. “Oh, I thought—they were a gift from someone else, for you.”

                “What?” he managed to say, shaking his head. What a thing for her to think. “I know I don’t deserve to give you a gift for today, but I thought you deserved a gift more.” Belle buried her nose in the flowers, unwrapping them from their paper and wire with deft hands.

                “Thank you,” she said, voice tight. “It’s kind of you.”

                He watched her trim the flowers and put them into a wider vase than the one that held her daffodil, feeling helpless. It had been meant to make her happy.

                “I guess I don’t need this,” she said, plucking her daffodil from the table. He reached his hand toward her.

                “No,” he said. “I like that you take the flowers from the yard.” She gestured to the roses.

                “You’ve brought me these, aren’t they better?” He limped over to her, closing his hand around hers, around the fragile green stem of today’s white and yellow blossom.

                “No,” he said, bowing his head, and their foreheads nearly touched. “No, they’re not.” He took a deep breath, trying to find the right words. “It’s almost a guarantee that anything you do is better than anything I do, as a matter of fact.” He looked down at the spring flower. “Even the flowers.”

                “Then why did you bring them?” she asked, turning her head up to face him. They were far too close.

                “Because I wanted to bring you something lovely,” he said. She deserved all the trappings of love’s holiday in this land. Even from a poor, broken excuse for a lover.

                “Thank you,” she said, and he dared to lower his mouth to kiss her forehead, briefly and gently. She hugged him in response, and a few damp pink petals brushed off a rose onto his face, but he couldn’t begin to care, as Belle pushed her face into his shoulder and clung to him. He squeezed back with one arm, holding the daffodil in his hand as gently as possible as he stroked her hair: if Belle got rose petals all over him, no matter, but she picked these each morning. A flower for every day she was safe and well. He would not see a single bruise on any of them, any more than on her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter title from "Graceless," by the National.


	11. You Were A Kindness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Belle reflects on herself and makes a decision.

                Belle had a new set of books, a gift from Mr. Gold, who said she might like an adventure story and deposited them carefully on the end table next to her seat on the couch. They were hardcovers, bound in cloth and printed with silver lettering on the spines. _The Lord of the Rings_ , in three volumes. She had started the first one today, eager to see if he was right about her tastes. She thought he probably was, because she was on the edge of her seat over the flight across the Shire—that is, when she wasn’t giggling over something Pippin said.

                Mr. Gold’s garden, while still producing an abundance of daffodils, had buds of irises too now, dark blue-violet peeking through translucent green sheaths. They would bloom soon, she thought. It was chilly to sit outside on the porch, but today she brought a cushion and a blanket, tired of looking outside through the window. At first, she thought it would remind her unpleasantly of her weeks in the cold, but she was safe inside the wooden fence with its closely placed boards, a stride away from the safety of the house. She brought a cup of tea and her new book and sat on the steps leading down from the porch, listening to the birds chirp and whistle in the pines around the house.

                Her toes turned dark and purplish after a few hours, though, and she thought she might be too cold, so went back inside and took a bath. Her toes warmed up quickly, turning a lively pink, and as she rinsed her hair out, she thought about the time she had shared a bath with Mr. Gold. He had looked so bashful, with his hair flat and wet, huddling under the white surface of the soapy water. After their first night, he had become so shy, so hesitant to touch her or make demands of her. He felt guilty: a few months of living with him and slowly becoming more certain of herself and her situation and the world, she understood why. Prostitution was a crime, and so was paying prostitutes.

                Belle did not like the idea of thinking of herself as a victim of Mr. Gold, though perhaps he did. She hadn’t minded his bed, had liked touching him, and liked sleeping close to him. He made her feel safe, and so did his house and his garden. She was still afraid to go out, but he didn’t ask her to, just said to take as long as she needed, and he would protect her. He held her when she dreamed about white rooms and pills that stole time and sense from her and woke trembling and crying. No, she was not his victim. She was frightened and weak and little, but she was no one’s victim any longer.

                She used the blowdryer under the sink to dry her hair and dressed in soft sweatpants and a sweater in a cheery yellow color. Then she went downstairs and made a sandwich, trying to think. If she acted happier, perhaps his guilt would lessen. But, she didn’t act unhappy now: he hugged his guilt, even as it stung him, she knew.

                So instead of trying to give him forgiveness that he wouldn’t take, she made them rice and vegetables and beef for dinner. It was the most ambitious thing she’d made yet, and perhaps the beef was overseasoned, but Mr. Gold smiled at all of it and thanked her again and again.

                “You know how you can thank me?” she asked him, smiling. He looked at her, blinking his brown eyes. Belle bit her lip, thinking he looked like a confused owl.

                “Tell me,” he said earnestly. Belle got up from her chair and went to him, taking his hand in hers.

                “Give me a kiss,” she answered, and kept smiling at him, not wanting him to feel trapped. He blinked again, brows drawing together into a frown.

                “A kiss?” he asked, voice hesitant, one hand slightly raised in some kind of confusion. Belle nodded, giving him a hopeful look. He stood slowly, holding her hand carefully, and Belle turned her face up to his. He still looked confused and troubled, and bent his head somewhat to the side, aiming for her cheek. His lips touched her skin lightly, and as he drew away, Belle rose onto her tiptoes and caught his lips on hers. Mr. Gold froze at that, eyes widening. Belle pushed her lips firmly against his and then drew away, running her tongue over her lower lip. She thought she could still taste the soy and sugar she’d put too much of into the beef.

                “There,” she said. “No need to thank me any more.” She released his hand and went back to her own seat. Mr. Gold was still sitting down when she started eating again. He stared at her, as if she had done something completely shocking, and Belle smiled back at him. He picked up his fork and knife, looked away, and then looked back at her. Then he gave her a hesitant, uncertain smile in return, and she felt warm all over, heart soaring.

                Mr. Gold’s knife scraped across his plate in the ensuing silence, and Belle took a sip of water to calm down.

                “I like the books so far,” she said. “It was very kind of you, thank you.” Mr. Gold nodded.

                “Good,” he said. “You’re very welcome.” He gave her somewhat of a stronger smile, and Belle beamed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title from "You Were A Kindness" by The National


End file.
